


The Birds and the Bees

by heliumdeposit



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cryptids, Davesprite and Bro Aren't Related, Love Hotels, M/M, one-night stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 20:01:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20895302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heliumdeposit/pseuds/heliumdeposit
Summary: When a one-night stand turns into two, into three, into everything one Bro Strider doesn’t stand by— he lets himself have it; have him.





	The Birds and the Bees

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively titled: a kilogram of steel or a kilogram of faethuz

Delicate as an opalescent glow, narrow wings and an even narrower tongue, he resembles a Phoenix in his fierceness, in the gradient hues along the span of his wings; red into molten gold, a faint haze ruffling his feathers as he topples over the edge, white sparks flickering behind thin, fair eyelids— a Phoenix burning furiously to signal its death.

But much like a Phoenix rises from the ashes, reborn, his eyes ignite rubies, tufts quivering, smelling of sage and cinnamon as he rolls his loins against yours; claws marring crimson tendrils along your shoulder blades, wings unfolding from beneath his lithe spine to curve, towering, over your mortal body.

You wake up next to him often, on days just like any other day.

The Space Age Pop flows from the phonograph, a little tranquil, hypnotic, moving. You’re damp under the armpits and in the creases of your belly, hair slick with sweat, stiff, against the softer more surreal touch of his feathers.

Feathers;

Soft stalks, even softer fuzz. The vanes glimmer in amber, lucent barbs; a halo. 

Not hardened resin; not the one encasing little critters, long gone, frozen over in a matter of seconds, nano-seconds, never years.

You’ve had pelt under the tip of your nose, leather too. You’d humored the thought of having skin, much like yours, under your tongue again, back when you’d contemplated crossing the river. 

But you’d skipped along the mossy rocks, alongside the whirring stream; hazy particles splashing your boots, flowing and floating, feather-light touches against your skin as you’d marched up the eroded stairs; to the inevitability of never going back once you’d crossed the threshold, and you’d never went back.

There is something so profoundly melancholic about him, bitter around the edges, forlorn when the façade he’s wearing slips away. You were never quite able to put a finger on it, till nights stretched to early mornings stretched to high afternoon suns, and you'd blink your eyelashes open to his droopy face; he'd still be there, nestled into the thick quilt, body melting heavily into the too-rigid-mattress.

On nights when neon lights paint his features in dimmed cyans and hot pinks, a low-end diner sign half-forgotten on the side of the road, blinking into a quiet night— he nuzzles into your neck, and you let him.

You shove him off, though, when he tries to regurgitate down your throat, and he’d smirk something alluring, testing the waters, teasing you.

But there’s no beak, he doesn’t have the usual mandibles of a bird of prey, which is strange because you thought you’d grinded with his kind before. But he isn’t a Phoenix, _ not in the literal sense of the word_, you remind yourself.

Where those birds are chirping noises and pecking frail, delicate skin, he’s all hushed moans, shuffling blankets. And maybe the assumption on your part had been the faulty one; when his jaw unhinges to sink pearly teeth into a ripe fruit from the ceramic bowl on the dressing table, always there in the corner of your eyes.

No one ever stores their belongings in the shabby wooden structure, but the owners of the hotel still like to play pretend, to fill up space. You play along, never questioning their tastes, tactics. Maybe they’re money laundering somewhere down the crevices of the drawers. Maybe they’re makeshift hotels for tinier creatures, because who’s to say mice and spiders don’t need space for sexy times, too.

His feathers had bristled the first time you sank into his heat, needles pricking your chest. He'd barely let out a sound, edging you on; coaxing you to force one out of him right from the base of his stomach, even if it cost him his soundbox; playing on a loop, over and over in the afterglow, skin glistening, golden.

He’s not too quiet anymore, though. He cusses a lot, and he makes a distinct noise, tight, almost pained, yet full of ecstasy. It’s not the animalistic screeches you’ve come to associate with Pards, nor the deep, rumbling, earthy groans from that green-eyed Centaur.

He gives his name away on the fourth night, which makes you think he’s not from here, either, otherwise, he would’ve known better.

“Dave,” he says haughtily, preening his feathers, wet to the touch after, “but they call me Davesprite, because I have a wispy tail, like a ghost,” he sucks his teeth, “which is funny because ghosts aren’t real, y’know.”

“Sprites are real, alright,” you point out, feeling smug to be correcting him, “you mean spirits?”

“Oh, uh,” he blinks, looking pensive, the gears shifting in his head, concluding with a, “maybe.”

He adores twirling the end tip of said wispy tail with his rough claws as if it were tangible, physical; carding through it with sharp talons, laid on his back, head lolling, gazing at you with half-lidded eyes. 

You’d grasped at the opalescent haze once; thighs coiled with tension, sweat beads tipping off a brow ridge, a searing hook pulling at your navel— but your nails caught the disheveled duvet underneath him, instead.

“Only I can feel it, it’s kinda heavy,” he explains on the seventh night, slapping the general area where you think his abdomen is supposed to be, “it’s how I got all these sweet, delicious rolls, wanna feel them?”

His abs are firm under the touch, and he sucks in a breath at your insistent pressing to the muscles; his tail swishing back and forth as you scratch the flesh near and around the base of each calamus with blunt fingernails.

You start to get used to accidentally plucking a fine feather, or two, from between a bouquet of saturated and dimmed ones; transparent, opaque, and your favorites— the iridescent ones.  
  
“I don’t mind, I grow a lot of feathers on the daily,” he says, youthful pride lingering on his lips, and in his eyes; a shepherd's delight.  
  
It wasn’t an aberrant streak on your part, nor on your conscience, but the ones you’d find in bed long after he’d shut the door behind him, long after your racing heart calms down, are the ones you’d hold to your nose; inhaling deeply the scent of him; clipping them to the collar of your tunic on sunny days, and treasuring them in a satchel on rainy ones.


End file.
